Imagine My Surprise
The following entry was written for Mommybloggers.com by this week's featured guest, Donna of SoCal Mom.
Ten years ago today, I was doing pretty much what I’m doing now: reading and writing emails and surfing the web.
Except I was seven months pregnant.
I remember back then, trying to picture how my baby would look. From what I learned of heredity back in high school biology, I figured my dark, olive Mediterranean features would trump my husband’s fair Anglo-Saxon-Celtic-ness. I imagined a little Mini-Me, who would follow me around the house, learning by my example.
Imagine my surprise when the doctor placed my baby on my chest after delivering her via C-section. She was the whitest infant I’d ever seen – and the prettiest. I know, I’m her mother and that probably colors my perception, but her little face looked almost exactly like that of the baby doll we’d bought a couple of months earlier (to diaper in the parenting classes we took when we were preparing for her birth).
I was a little bit ashamed of myself for being relieved that she was so pretty – I firmly believe that we put too much value on physical attractiveness. But mostly, I was proud. After all, I don’t see our society changing its attitudes any time soon. Attractive people will always have it a little bit easier than the rest of us.
Needless to say, she didn’t look like me. She still doesn’t. She’s lithe and lean and she has no tush -- not a hint of the feature my mom calls the family curse. I marvel at the cuteness of her nose – no trace of the little bump on mine. I don’t really know where she got that nose; it doesn’t look like my husband’s, either.
Over the years, she has continued to amaze and surprise me by how much we’re not alike.
I was a bookish child who enjoyed the challenge of a good writing assignment in school. (Yes, I was the kid who would ask for more to do – the one everyone else in the class hated.) I was the last kid picked for the team, because my inclusion would ensure the game would be lost. Even when I got to be team captain and managed to pick all the best athletes, we lost – because all the other team had to do was direct the ball in my direction and I would be unable to catch it or throw it or kick it or whatever it was I supposed to do.
My daughter, on the other hand, is a natural athlete. She beats the boys in races, and has the grace of the competitive gymnast she is. She would much rather train for 16 hours a week than pick up a book. And writing assignments put her in a panic.
This is a shame, because she’s actually a pretty good little writer, once she gets over her fear of putting pen to paper.
On the other hand, she loves math. It’s her favorite subject.
I can’t balance a checkbook without the help of Quicken, Excel and a good calculator.
I am not a cuddly person. I don’t do touchy-feely and feel awkward with friends who greet me with hugs and kisses. I separated emotionally from my parents at a very early age.
At nearly 10 years old, Megan is still very attached to me. She clings to me at inappropriate times, like when I’m trying to have an adult conversation – or do the dishes.
I keep waiting for her to decide that doing so is not cool. And I’m dreading it.
Read more by this week's featured guest, Donna at her fantastic blog: SoCal Mom.